Imagine being loved by me
by withered
Summary: Either Derek is a stealth dater, or Stiles is reading too much into this. Which is neither here nor there if he's being honest because Stiles is pretty convinced there's no need to get his hopes up. Spoiler alert: He's wrong. So very wrong.


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Imagine being loved by me

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Stiles has an idea of what sleeping with Derek will be like.

He's not gonna lie, he's given it considerable thought.

What? It's not like he's _alone. _Have you seen Derek Hale?

Six foot of muscle; strong jaw; designer stubble; cheekbones sharp enough to a cut a man, and eyes like a grab bag of poetry about starbursts and oceans and emeralds and – the point is, Derek is everyone's type. And, after his arrival to small-town Americana via Beacon Hills, everyone and their mothers and grandmothers have probably thought of multiple ways to climb Derek like a tree.

This isn't like Stiles' fascination with male circumcision in high school.

This is a town-wide curiosity like if a place as nowhere as Beacon Hills had to have a local legend, Beacon Hills' would be about Derek's aggressive beauty.

There's even a betting pool. Which is, honestly, pretty gross, he can admit. But the point stands: thinking about sleeping with Derek is practically a norm.

The number of people that actually have, however, is dismal – practically zero.

_Actually zero._

No one's even sure if Derek's known the intimate touch of another human being since he's arrived which isn't to say _no one has tried_.

They had calls coming into the station for almost a month straight over the dumbest things in the hopes that Deputy Hale would be on the case, which he'd taken with gracious stoicism.

As a transfer from the big city, he's probably used to all sorts of ridiculous, flirtatious overturns. With the calibre of Beacon Hills' dating pool significantly affected by Lydia Martin's exit, and kept almost entirely afloat by the sheer strength of Danny Mahealani's bone structure alone, Beacon Hills isn't exactly the height of sophisticated courtship.

It's easy enough to see what everyone wants from him, but no matter how embarrassingly, blatantly obvious they try, men and women alike have failed because Derek Hale won't bat an eye.

Considering the family picture framed on his desk – three impossibly beautiful sisters and a brother just as stupidly handsome as he is, along with parents whose gene pools deserve a Nobel in a category all of their own, Stiles isn't surprised.

Still, unbearably cool and consistently unruffled, it's been almost six months since, and no one's gotten Derek to sweat a drop. It's practically inhuman.

At one stage, Erica, practically married to local baker, Vernon Boyd, did the classic Bend-and-Snap which on any other mere mortal, would get necks to snap, but in this case, had to be repeated several times before Derek even noticed.

And then, he'd only raised an unimpressed eyebrow and informed her that there was no need to keep chasing the same pen across the precinct floor; they bought a whole new box just yesterday, it's in the storage cupboard, he'd added blandly, if she wanted to get another.

Isaac almost cried laughing.

Which makes Stiles think that Derek's a pretty unimpressive lover, urban legend status aside.

Stiles may not be a cop like his old man, but he's observant enough to put the pieces together.

Guys like Derek are used to being chased, used to being worshipped.

And if growing up with Jackson Whittemore has shown Stiles anything its that those kind of guys are never as good as their packaging implies.

He's got an advantage over Whittemore purely because Derek isn't as much of a douche, but also because whenever he _does_ crack, it's usually to make a dry, bitingly perfect remark or flash a suggestion of a dirty smirk or that one time when he actually geeked out with Boyd over _Harry Potter_ of all things, and _that does things for Stiles, okay?_

Jackson could never.

But that doesn't change the fact that Derek's probably the type to make you do all the work, and while Stiles could get on board with that given any sort of circumstance involving Derek Hale naked with him, he isn't a fan of that dynamic in the long run.

He may have only been in Berkeley for a year before coming back home, but Stiles has been around, got a taste for his taste, so to speak. He's got standards now that he's vaguely cultured and worldly.

Though that would be generous considering one, he's only ever lived outside of Beacon Hills for a year and even then Berkeley was in the same state, two, he's only actually slept with maybe three other people (maybe, because he isn't quite sure when it counts and when it doesn't, but he's pretty sure he's been sexually active with at least two other people, more or less) and he's gonna be honest, it's been a while since, and three, all he really requires from a bedmate is enthusiasm, reciprocity.

While Derek doesn't exactly lack vitality – seeing him work out had been _life-affirming – _and certainly never thought twice about giving double what he's being served when assholes like Gerard Argent came into town, Derek's entirely too restrained to ever think of going for spastic, hyperactive Stiles Stiliniski, Sheriff's kid and BHPD's I.T guy.

Stiles is pretty sure that Derek's version of a good time is reading and quiet nights in – totally admirable pursuits, in Stiles' opinion – but Derek would probably value quiet and control and restraint, and the same, unerring calm he exudes.

And Stiles – Stiles just isn't any of those things.

Sure, he'll spend actual _days _binge-watching a series from the eighties because _It's Betty White, Scott, God, have some respect_, but he'll also talk the entire time, go on tangents and meta-theories and drive people crazy with his every twitch and hand wave and – he knows he's exhausting, he is.

And Derek's been around him. He knows exactly what Stiles is like.

And sure, Derek has still asked him out a few times – if going on coffee runs for the precinct count as _asking someone out_ – and sure they've exchanged banter more times than strictly a result of casual acquaintanceship but Stiles isn't getting in over his head.

It isn't like Derek's serious.

Which turns out to be so fucking _wrong_, holy fuck, because serious is not the word Stiles would use to describe Derek which is ironically, the best word to describe Derek, period.

He's all intensity and focus, and its proof that Derek doesn't do anything half-way. Nope.

Because zero to a hundred, that's Derek.

He doesn't do things as plebeian as _attraction_.

He does worship and devotion, and nothing less.

Something Stiles finds out after a rather prolonged period of constant coffee-runs together and late nights at the precinct because Derek, cool and calm, has apparently been at the end of his rope.

It's like he wants to memorize every inch of Stiles with _his tongue _like there's going to be a Q&A after about where Stiles tastes different and where Derek can coax the best noises out of him, and that's just –

Stiles inhales sharply before groaning out, long and low and frankly embarrassing, "Der -" before the other man swallows down the rest of his name, all claiming, bruising lips and a tease of teeth.

A warm hand trails fire down the front of his shirt – and god, when did Derek get that open? – until Derek cups Stiles' thickening dick through his slacks and _fuuuuck how did this even happen? What deity did Stiles please? Do they accept human souls because Stiles is totally down with giving his up for more of this because –_

His head hits the back of the wall with a not so subtle _thud_ and he thinks his eyes have rolled all the way to the back of his head when he realizes that Derek isn't pressed so close he wants to meld them together – no, sir – Derek Hale is on his knees and Stiles is going to fucking lose it in a goddamn supply closet with his dad and a full bullpen of deputies twenty feet away.

Restraint?

Derek doesn't know her.

And Stiles?

Definitely getting some.


End file.
